Sharp-Dressed Man
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She wants to press him back into the passenger seat and make him go still and silent. She wants him to leave the hat on." A silly PWP insert (ahem) for 5 x 20, the Fast and the Furriest. One-Shot


Title: Sharp-Dressed Man

WC: ~3200

Summary: "She wants to press him back into the passenger seat and make him go still and silent. She wants him to leave the hat on." A silly PWP insert (_ahem_) for 5 x 20, the Fast and the Furriest.

A/N: I am certainly not working out my own issues about that hat. Because that would be ridiculous. As ridiculous as the fact that that _stupid hat _only makes him hotter.

* * *

I don't need a reason why.  
They come runnin' just as fast as they can  
Coz' every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

- Z. Z. Top

* * *

She wants to rip it off his head. That _dumb_ hat.

She wonders where the hell he even got it. He must have ordered it online. All of it. He must have. There is no way he sauntered into Hesselson's and loaded up a cart with all that. Not without having his chatty, metrosexual ass handed to him.

She wants to rip it off his head. That's the problem. One of many, many problems. Because it's a long, long, _long_ drive, and he has not shut up for two seconds.

And he won't sit still. Of _course_ he won't sit still. Not sitting still is like his superpower. His feet tap the floorboards, and when she yells at him for that, he drums on the arm rest. And when she slaps his hand for _that, _he just bounces in place. Just the slightest vertical motion, but she sees it out of the corner of her eye. It makes her a little nauseous. She snaps at him again and he grins. He just _grins. _

His eyes are wide and sparkling and the words just keep coming. Facts and theories and now, oh _God,_ he's telling a story and she should _hate _this. She should hate that he won't shut up and he won't sit still. She should hate the fact that he's wearing that dumb _hat_.

She doesn't. She doesn't hate it.

He has her feeling sorry for Bigfoot. He paints a picture of him huddled and alone in the wilderness. Misunderstood and hounded by scholars and hunters alike. Despised and fetishized and alone. The last of his kind or as good as. He has her feeling sorry for Bigfoot. _He has her feeling sorry for Bigfoot. _The thought rolls around her mind, and she should _hate _it.

She should hate that he's sitting there in that _dumb _hat and that eye-searing shirt and those _overalls_. He looks like an ad for survivalist Garanimals. He looks ridiculous.

He looks adorable. He _is _adorable.

She shudders and clenches her teeth, but the word won't vacate the premises of her mind. Dumb hat and jogging knee and running mouth and all, he's _adorable_, and she doesn't hate any of it.

What she hates is the sad case she's become. The sad case he's made her, because the hardest thing about this—the thing she hates the most—is resisting the urge to pull over right the hell now.

She wants to crank the wheel sharply. She wants to veer off into the dense shadows that gather on the shoulder of the deserted road. She wants to see his eyes fly wide when she switches off the ignition with a decisive flick of her wrist. She wants to climb over the gearshift and _shut him up._

She wants to make quick work of the overalls. She'd toss the shirt out the window if it weren't cruel and unusual punishment for the local wild life. But there's nothing that says she can't shove under the seat and out of sight. She wants to press him back into the passenger seat and make him go still and silent.

She wants him to leave the hat on.

* * *

She has a bizarre urge to thank him once they're out of the car. _Bizarre. _

He's thunking boulders and tree trunks and thrashing at the underbrush. He's _loud_ and she does _not _like all this traipsing through the woods. She's all for nature in its place. Its place is nowhere near any case of hers. Its place is when she's off the clock and he whisks her way and he wears scarves she can unwind and those soft v-neck sweaters with the sleeves pushed up. And he does _not_ wear that dumb hat.

When she's on the clock—when they're at work—she likes concrete under her feet and heels high enough that she's eye to eye with him. She likes the familiar noise of the city as a backdrop for his ramblings and she does not like any of this two-square-mile stretch of forest _one bit. _

Once he starts with the vocalizations, she officially crosses the threshold into hate and she wants to thank him for that.

It doesn't last. Because the way she wants to thank him involves wrapping her legs around him and using the straps of those stupid overalls like reins. It involves finding better, much quieter uses for his tongue. It involves him leaving the hat on.

And then he goes on about Alexis and she's back to not hating it at all. He chatters on, bursting with pride over his daughter's skills in the area of cryptozoological vocalizations. The words actually leave his mouth—_cryptozoological vocalizations_—and she is one second away from having her way with him up against a tree for that alone.

He's blissfully unaware that he's in seven different kinds of danger. He tells the story about the talent show she won and the time he was totally able to photobomb Peter Mayhew at Supernova Con because she challenged him to a Wookie Call contest.

She won that, too. Of course she won. She's a Castle. And in defiance of all laws of logic, God, and man, Castles always win. And you can't even hate them for it. Not in the long run.

Oh, sure, there might be some fleeting hate. There might be a stray thought or two about whether there's any much-needed duct tape in any of those _stupid _pockets. But duct tape leads back to overalls and reins and naughty, naughty ponies. She's not exactly sure when using that whacking stick of his like a riding crop crept into the equation, but she's a little disturbed by it. Just a little, though.

She still wants him to leave the hat on.

* * *

She doesn't need his help to hate life at the bottom of a hole. She already has some impressive, full-on hate going for this case, her career choice, nature in general, the forest as an ecosystem, and every furry woodland creature in this 2-square-mile patch of hell. She is not looking for any assistance getting to hate once they hit this particular turn of events.

She gets a little help anyway, though, when the first words out of his mouth are about his knee. She's laid out, enjoying the razor sharp crack of pain as every bit of breath slams out of her body. And in case that doesn't get her all the way to hate, there's the violent wrenching sensation in her lower back.

He hasn't even lost his feet. That dumb hat isn't even _askew _and he's complaining about his knee.

She hates him more than just a little then. She hates it all more than just a little, and the next second she feels like shit, because his _knee_. He's barely out of the brace and she knows it still hurts and he doesn't complain. He doesn't complain much. He doesn't complain much when they're at work. She's at work and he's there.

Because this isn't even his job. It's hers, and what is she going to do if he's really hurt? She can't exactly carry him out on her back. And Gates will have a _field _day if they need a rescue and she fucking _hates _nature.

She jerks herself to a sitting position and clambers to her feet. She bites her lip as the small of her back twangs like a rubber band that's seen better days. She can't quite suppress a grunt of pain when she straightens up, though, and he's by her side in an instant.

"You okay?" He ducks to peer into her face, like he knows she'll lie.

She will. She was about to.

She was just about to, but all she can see in the dim sunlight slanting into the pit is the glint of concern in his eyes. All she can hear is the note of concern beneath his casual, clipped tone. All she can think about is that dumb hat.

She lunges for him. Her lips slam against his and it's only his reflexes and eleven months of practice that keep their teeth from knocking painfully together.

He catches her and controls their fall against the crumbling wall of the pit. The top of her head bumps the bill of the cap. He reaches up to get it out of the way, but she snatches his hand back.

"Leave it," she pants as she yanks it back down to his ears. She can feel his frown and his face squinching up into a question. She hates this. She hates all this and she doesn't have time for questions.

She bites his lip hard enough that his jaw drops open and he lets out a squeak of protest. She seizes the moment and dives in tongue first. For a few long, blissful moments he's quiet. No question, no protest, no pathos-filled stories about Bigfoot. He's _quiet_.

She hooks one booted foot behind his thigh. He shrugs a little down the wall, giving her a makeshift lap to climb on to. She slides her hips forward and digs her fingers into his shoulder for purchase. He jerks against her with a brief grunt and her eyes fly open.

_His knee_. She suddenly remembers his knee and she tugs her mouth away from his.

He tilts his head in a question, then gets it the next second. He reaches for the zipper of her jacket and works it down with a single, practiced move. He pulls her back to his mouth as the leather parts and his hands find their way under the hem of her shirt.

"Fine," he mumbles against her jaw. "Knee's fine."

She crowds closer and grabs him by the horizontal of the stupid overalls. She squeezes the clip to separate the two halves and shoves the straps off his shoulders and half down his arms. She thinks about reins and decides theres's no time for pony rides, and anyway, her would-be riding crop is broken and it's really a shame that there's no time.

The stupid orange shirt is apparently a mile long. It feels like forever before her hands

finally yank it free of his waistband and find their way to bare skin. He yelps. He yelps and shoves her off his lap. She lands hard and and it judders up her spine unpleasantly.

"Ow, Castle! What the _hell_?" she snaps.

"Your back!" He curls his arm around her waist and presses a warm palm over the small of her back. "Sorry, sorry!"

He lands a chaste, agitated kiss on her forehead. The hat nearly takes her eye out.

"What the _hell?" _She reaches for the straps of his overalls. It's time for the reins.

"I . . . you . . ." He bats her hands away. "Beckett, _stop_!"

"Castle!" She raises a single finger between them. He freezes. _Finally_. "What. The. Hell?"

"I . . . just . . ." He fidgets with one of the seven million fasteners on his overalls. "Is this a good idea?"

"A good idea," she parrots his words blankly.

"Having . . ." He dips his head. With the hat she can barely see his eyes darting around and she wonders why the hell he's whispering. " . . . sex in a trap that might or might not have been set by Bigfoot."

"Castle we are not . . ." She blinks at him. "Bigfoot? You think _Bigfoot_ dug a perfectly square 10-foot hole?"

He blinks back. "We're not?"

"Not what?" Oh, she does _not _ have time for one of _these _conversations.

"Having sex," he says as though it's obvious. "Because I think . . . they say bears are attracted to the scent and it stands to reason . . ."

"Castle!" She slaps a hand over his mouth and wonders again about duct tape. "We are not . . . we were _not _going to have sex."

His eyebrows shoot up. They practically disappear under the hat. He peels her hand away.

"Really?" He reaches for her with that grin and she really hates him. She hates the grin and she hates the hat and the sloppy, untucked hem of his shirt. He pulls her closer and his teeth catch her ear. She hates that, too. "Really?"

"Really," she says and she wants it to be sarcastic, but it's not. The tip of his tongue flicks out against her skin and it's just not. "We were . . . we . . ."

"We?" He repeats absently.

He's using his teeth now. All along this trail he's mapped out before because he knows it drives her crazy.

"We were just _. . . _making out," she huffs desperately.

"Making _out?_" He's laughing now.

He's not letting up—his hands are running up her sides—but he's laughing and she really, _really _hates him.

She snags at his waistband, and what started out as a low chuckle erupts into a groan as her hips bump his and trap her hand between them. Somewhere under at least three layers of stupid—one of which may or may not be some kind of military grade boxer briefs—he's not laughing.

"Don't you want to make out with me, Castle?" She finds his fly or whatever the survivalist Garanimal equivalent of a fly is. She jerks open at least three different kinds of fasteners and her hand slips inside.

"Yes," he gasps as he palms her breast. He shifts his feet and backs her into the wall. "I definitely want to make out."

"Not afraid?"

"A little," he admits as he jerks her bra cup aside and his mouth lands on her skin. He sucks hard. His tongue flickers over her nipple as he considers it. "With you, Beckett? Always a little afraid."

"Good." She laughs and closes her hand around him. He curses and nips at her breast. Her head falls back and some of the wall rains down on them.

She can't believe how stupid this is. She can't believe that he's actually managed to get these particular jeans most of the way down her hips while she's been thinking about stupid this is. She can't believe he still has that _dumb _hat on and it's working for her.

He hooks his thumbs through her belt loops and gives an experimental tug. Another shower of wall lands on her shoulders. He gives her a considering look and spins them so it's his back against the wall. He tugs again and she shimmies her hips as her contribution to the effort.

They're tight and resistant and she hates them, even though they were a favorite pair when she put them on this morning. But now she thinks this is never going to work and it's all their fault. That geometry and physics and these stupid jeans and the goddamned forest are against her and she is not getting completely naked in a 10-foot trap that was definitely not set for them by Bigfoot.

She thinks it's never going to work and then he's hauling her up on to his hips and sinking into her. She has no idea how he does it—how he makes it work—but it jolts through her spine. She knows she'll pay for it later, but right now she ducks and dives for his mouth under the brim of that dumb hat and holds on for dear life.

His fingers dig into her hips. It hurts. It _hurts, _but she's pretty sure the bruising force is the only thing keeping this ridiculous operation together and she's all for it. All for it. She jerks toward him and they find a desperate rhythm. Bits of wall waft through the slanting sunlight and it's not long before she can barely drag a breath in. She pulls away from his mouth and bites down on his shoulder.

His hips arc up hard and he hits her just right. Just right and she slams back against him.

"God, Beck . . . Beckett." His hands slide lower. His palms curve around her ass and he holds her tight against him. He groans into her shoulder and he grinds into her and it's a long, stupid finale and it's _so_ good.

He sags against the wall. They lean there together panting for a while. The sun sinks lower and the sheer stupidity of the whole thing hits her again, courtesy of a chill breeze in unwelcome places.

He eases her to the ground and roots around in one of his zillion pockets for some kind of cloth that actually comes in handy, though she does _not _need to hear about all its space-age properties and what kinds of fluids it's resistant to. She just does _not_ need to hear that right now. The clean themselves up and tuck things back where they belong and her cheeks are burning. So _stupid. _

His aren't. Of course they aren't. He's grinning and brushing the dirt off her shoulders. He's grinning under that hat and she just wants to _hate _him.

He finally realizes that she's glaring at him. He stops mid-brush and looks at her curiously. "What?"

"Castle . . . don't you . . . aren't you . . ." She blows the hair out of her eyes with an aggravated puff. "We just . . ."

"Made out?" He suggests with a cheerful leer.

"We just had sex in a Bigfoot trap!" she shouts. It's loud enough to carry. Loud enough to travel back and she cringes again.

"Don't try to scare me now, Beckett." He runs his fingers through her hair, shaking the dirt loose. "You said it _wasn't _a Bigfoot trap."

He stops and tilts his head to the side. "Or do you mean a trap _for _Bigfoot, not a trap _by _Bigfoot? Those really ought to be distinct . . ."

"Castle!"

"Kate," he says gently. He reaches out and grazes her cheek with his fingers. "It's ok. Now you've gotta get us out of here."

Her breath trips up and she tries to smile at him. He's ridiculous and adorable and that hat is _really _dumb.

"Right," she says after a minute. "Gotta get us out of here."

He drops into a crouch and she looks down at him in confusion. He peers up at her, equally confused.

"Come on, Beckett," he taps his own shoulder. "Cheerleader move, right? No skirt, but I'll make an exception. Life and death and all that."

She shakes her head and clambers on to his back. They bicker as he struggles upright and she sways on his shoulders. Her legs are more than a little rubbery, because . . . _stupid . . . _but his hands are steady around her calves and she's grateful for it. He boosts her up over the side and she flops on the ground and breathes up at the sun.

She works her way to her feet. She stands at the edge and looks down at him.

He peers up at her and he looks young and silly and more than a little nervous. He is. She knows he is.

"Promise me you'll come back for me, Beckett. Promise me you'll hurry."

He's grinning as he says it. Smirking, but she knows he's nervous and she wishes she didn't have to leave him alone.

"For you, Castle? Maybe, maybe not." She gives him a wink and flips a granola bar down to him.

"Oh, that's cute." He grins and it's real this time. Closer to real anyway. "But seriously, hurry back."

"Don't worry, Castle. I'm definitely coming back for that hat."


End file.
